


Coercion and its Fallout

by CCH1 (runningczar)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Good Severus Snape, Hurt/Comfort, Mentor Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningczar/pseuds/CCH1
Summary: Harry Potter is raped by Voldemort when he gains a new body that night at the cemetery. Snape ends up overseeing the boy's recovery.If it bothers you, I have taken license to change significant plot details to suit the story.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry helplessly watched while Voldemort’s corporeal form emerged from the disgusting stew. Harry had made this happen with his own blood. He struggled desperately not to vomit as a humanoid form took shape. It was definitely human, but Voldemort’s eyes and nostrils looked reptilian. Even his skin seemed grey and slippery. Everything was unnatural, not right. This couldn’t be.

There was a collective roar of triumph from the Death Eaters.

Voldemort laughed, a high, cold terribly laugh that shredded Harry’s insides. “Well done, Wormtail. I think this occasion calls for a celebration. I will kill this child, my nemesis.” Voldemort said it as a taunt to Harry, the weak teenager currently tied up, helpless. The Death Eaters laughed.

He turned to face Harry. Harry’s head felt that it would split open. “But first, I think there is some delight to be had in playing with one’s prey.” Harry could feel an almost palpable hunger in Voldemort’s voice, and shifting of the circle of Death Eaters. 

“Untie him, Wormtail. Let him fight me like a man.” Pettigrew used the sacrificial knife to slice at Harry’s bonds. Harry fell face first to the ground while Death Eaters laughed again. Voldemort did not join in, but maintained an almost manically focused gaze on Harry.”

“Get up, you pathetic child.” Harry called upon all his remaining strength to stand. “Give him his wand.” Pettigrew thrust Harry’s wand in his hand and quickly scuttled back a distance. 

Harry and Voldemort both raised their wands, but Voldemort beat him to it. “Crucio!” 

Harry’s mind and body seemed to explode. It like his skin was burning, freezing, being torn apart. Each bone felt like it was breaking, but with no relief. It was impossible, it was unbearable. Harry was not aware of dropping his wand and falling to the ground. He could hear someone screaming, and people laughing. But it didn’t matter. He was dying, but with no relief of death.

Voldemort lowered his wand. He had stepped close enough to Harry’s body to touch him. “There is a perfect way to celebrate having a new body.” Voldemort waved his wand, and Harry could feel his pants and jeans removed quickly, efficiently. The Death Eaters laughed again. “See the Chosen Boy now!” One of them said. Harry could sense rather than actually understand other mocking insults. “So smooth and pale,” another leered.

Harry still hadn’t caught up to what was happening. The humiliation was still a relief from the Cruciatus curse. If they wanted to disrobe him as an added insult before they killed him, he hardly cared. He had failed defend himself with his wand. It was over. 

But no, that wasn’t what was happened. Voldemort was touching him. Harry’s head exploded with pain again, much worse than when Voldemort had made eye contact with him. The touch was lewd, disgusting, up and down Harry’s thighs. Then he felt it. The head of Voldemort’s penis at his entrance. And Harry’s slow, stupid brain caught up in an instant. Now he understood. This was worse than death. It was death without dignity.

Harry pressed his face into the grass, still muddy from recent rains. He would not cry. He would not beg. In these final moments of his short life, this was the only resistance he could offer. He felt pathetic, and degraded. Every shameful emotion was so extreme that they felt entirely new. 

The Voldemort started moving inside him. Harry tried to focus on the grass. He was just a blade of grass. This wasn’t happening to him, it was just something he was witnessing. Something unpleasant, yes, but unrelated and unrelevant to him. But Voldemort kept thrusting inside of him, and fresh bursts of splitting pain would bring him back to his body before he could fully remove himself elsewhere. It seemed to last for hours. He could hear the Death Eaters jeering, laughing, mocking him. This was the legacy of his last few moments. Harry thought of his parents, of Dumbledore, of Lupin and Sirius. How ashamed they would be of him. 

Then he felt something else underneath the pain and despair. A small burst of bodily pleasure that started happening in time to Voldemort’s thrusts. No, no, no. That couldn’t be. He let out an involuntary gasp, and Voldemort laughed that high, degrading laugh.

“The Chosen Boy is enjoying this righting of events,” he hissed. “See the hope of the wizarding world. Dumbledore’s Chosen.” The Death Eaters jeered again. 

Harry used his last shred of dignity to beg. He begged for Voldemort to stop. He begged the Death Eaters to stop Voldemort. He knew it was useless, but he couldn’t take it. It was like the Cruciatus curse, but this was worse. It was his soul that was burning and freezing, being broken open over and over without relief. He thought of Snape. The Death Eater supposed to be on Dumbledore’s side. Was he one of the masked men here tonight? 

“Snape!” Harry tried to shout with face pressed into the mud. “Snape, please stop this! Help me! I can’t do it!” The Death Eaters laughed, and Voldemort managed to become even harsher with his movements. “Please, Snape, just kill me, just end this.” Harry sobbed. 

“Aw. The ickle Potter boy is crying. Snape will not help you, you filthy little boy.” It was a sultry female voice. “Just keep enjoying yourself while you can.”

Voldemort stopped suddenly. It seemed to have been hours. Harry could feel a sticky warm substance in him, and on his thighs.

“Get back up, boy.” Voldemort hissed. 

Harry thought of just remaining on the ground. Let them take him. He had lost everything. But, no, Harry would not let Voldemort do this, he had to try to regain some small illusion of dignity. Of redemption for his failure. He stood up. The effort felt Herculean. He pulled up his pants and trousers. More mocking, more ridicule from the circle. He picked up his wand.

His insides were burning, maybe bleeding, but no, he wouldn’t acknowledge that false information from his traitorous body. 

“Bow to me.” He resisted. He threw it off. No, Voldemort could not have that small submission. Harry wouldn’t allow it. Voldemort’s mirth turned to fury, and they cast their spells simultaneously.

“Avada Kedavra!” 

“Expelliarmus!”


	2. Chapter 2

“The boy is not seriously injured. In fact, all of his physical injuries have been treated and will take only a few days to heal entirely.” Madame Pomfrey said, clinically. “But, Albus, there are injuries he won’t talk about.”

Dumbledore, Snape, and Madame Pomfrey all stood, cramped in Poppy’s small broom cupboard of an office in the infirmary. Snape resented Dumbledore for summoning his prescence for this meeting, though Snape knew why it was so. He had born witness to that evening’s events. Now that the immediate matters of informing Diggory’s parents and interrogating Crouch, Jr. had been dealt with and Harry was safe under the auspices of Dreamless Sleep, it was time to examine the finer details of the events of the evening.

“The boy was sexually assaulted.” Dumbledore remained silent, but there was a certain stilling of his features. Snape had seen Dumbledore enraged, and it was a decidedly quiet affair. Snape also knew that it was lethal.

“Were you able to inquire about the details of this event?” Dumbledore asked.

“Hardly.” Poppy said, curtly. “He was barely holding onto consciousness, and I don’t specialize in mind healing. I asked him about the sexual injuries, of course, but he refused to answer me. I wanted to ask you how to handle it.”

“Naturally. Poppy, would you mind very much if Severus and I used your office privately for a moment?” Poppy looked Snape over as if calculating whether or not leaving him unsupervised in her infirmary posed a risk to her patients. Snape met her with a cold stare. She left without protest. 

“Severus, I know this is difficult, but I need to know the exact details of what transpired.” Dumbledore placed a subtle emphasis on the word “details”. “Mr. Potter will undoubtedly take time to be ready to speak of it, but it is crucial that I am made aware immediately – “

“I know,” Snape interrupted, rudely. But if timing was important to Dumbledore, then Snape could indulge himself in being spared from all the polite wordiness that was involved when conversing with the headmaster. “And if I am not ready yet?” It was childish, he knew, but Dumbledore was a skilled Legilimens himself, and there was a flurry of emotions in Snape’s body he desired to rid himself of, first.

Snape didn’t wait for Dumbledore to refuse him. The conclusion was already forgone. “Yes, Potter was assaulted – raped- tonight.” Dumbledore waited for him to continue. Surely, he must already know. Surely this was unnecessary, Snape thought angrily. “It was the Dark Lord, as a way of… celebrating his newly assumed corporeal form.”

“I see.” Dumbledore’s voice was neutral, but Snape could feel rigid anger seeping off of the older man. “And you witnessed this, of course.”

Snape nodded, once. He thought of how Potter had pleaded with him, how he done nothing. “He figured out I was a Death Eater. He concluded that I was present. He asked my assistance. I did nothing.” Snape did not betray any emotion in this recounting, but it was rare confession of failure. The second time he had to ask Dumbledore for absolution, if not in so many words.

Snape tensed as Dumbledore laid a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done, Severus. Surely you must be aware of that. You would have sacrificed all.” Snape knew he was not referring to his own life, but to the strategically advantage they had planned for him as The Dark Lord’s spy.

“While it was happening, they were all distracted. I managed to summon the portkey closer to the boy,” Snape said rashly. More childishness on his part. As if this ridiculous, futile gesture made up for his lack of competence, his ability to uphold his vow to protect Potter.

“That probably saved the boy’s life.” And really, how could Dumbledore be sure of that? Maybe death was a small mercy, given what Potter had left to face.

Dumbledore let the silence lapse for a few minutes before sitting down wearily in Pomfrey’s chair. “Alright, Severus, tell me the rest of the story. From the beginning, please.”


	3. Chapter 3

Snape sat behind his desk, careful to keep his hands still and his face utterly neutral. It was not a novel task for him, keeping prying eyes from seeing what he was feeling or thinking of, but it was rather more difficult than usual. 

The essential secret to penetrating other’s minds as well as protecting one’s own was *organization.* Putting memories out of sight. Identifying feelings, meditating upon their meaning. It wasn’t enough simply to suppress them; that created a cloud of murkiness that could be detected. He had to work through them, sort them, as if each meaningful thought he had was just another ingredient to be dried and stored in the correctly labeled bottle. Only then could he release them from the forefront of his mind, safe from the prying and prodding of the Dark Lord and even sometimes from Dumbledore himself. He was serving two masters, and each wanted their pound of flesh. Merlin, he was not ready to be serving two masters again. 

To the present moment, he chastised himself. There was far too much in his head. Pity for the boy. Visceral dislike towards Potter. Disgust at what he had seen. Sorrow. Regret. So much regret. Terror. The smell of blood. Irritation, at seeing his mental desktop cluttered with all these irrational and decidedly unnecessary emotions. But now was not the time to sort through them.

“I’m not really in the mood to talk, Snape.” Potter’s voice sounded dull. Hoarse. Under Dumbledore’s instruction, Snape had summoned Potter to his office immediately following his release from the Hospital Wing.

“In this unique instance, I sympathetize with you entirely, Mister Potter. But it is...” he paused. “Necessary.” 

Harry looked away. He looked thin. Frail. Spent. Snape had the strong suspicion the child was still in shock. Hadn’t yet processed everything. But it had been several days in the hospital wing, and it was time for the boy to start processing. He wondered what he wished would he would have been told. What would’ve helped him “process” what had happened to him, Snape. He thought of the only person he had ever told. Lily had simply looked at him with those wide green eyes. He had blurted it all out, frenetically, feverishly, while she had put her delicate hand on his forearm and just listened.

But he didn’t need to listen, did he? He had already seen it all in close detail. He closed his eyes briefly. God, his mind was a mess. He really needed to go to the Room of Requirement and meditate very soon. 

“I have three items I wish to convey to you tonight. The first is that no one deserved what happened to you that night. It was not your fault.” He had expected some dramatic outburst at this mention of “that night”, but Potter merely focused on a point past Snape’s shoulder, his fingers picking at the fabric on the armrest of his chair. Snape dispassionately noted a blush creeping up his neck. 

“The second item I wish to say is that you did everything correctly. That is to say, nothing you could have done would have saved Cedric, and no one reasonable or worthwhile blames you for his death.” Still nothing from Potter, but the blush was intensifying, growing.

“Finally, what happened to you was not something that I could keep to myself. I had to inform Professor Dumbledore. Of course, I will not inform anyone else. And—“ 

Potter shot up from his feet. He rapidly turned to run away. Turned around to face Snape again. Snape was reminded of a cornered fox. “Please, Snape, -Professor. No. Please don’t do that. I can’t.” Potter’s hands flew to his hair and pulled. “Please, tell Dumbledore that it didn’t happen. Don’t tell anyone. This- that thing, it didn’t happen like that.”

“Potter, it did happen. You can’t change it. I can’t change it. But it must be dealt with, and silence will not help you.”

Potter’s hands dropped from his head. His desperation transformed instantly to white hot rage. It was palpable. “Help me?!” He shouted hysterically. “Oh, that’s what you’re concerned with now, is it? My well-being? You just stood there. You just admitted you were there. You just fucking stood there. You watched, while I -while he - “ Potter abruptly stopped shouting, and ran towards the door. Snape wordlessly cast his magic, and the door slammed shut in Potter’s face. 

“While the Dark Lord raped you,” Snape said, softly, his cool voice contrasting sharply with Potter’s shouting.

“Fuck you!” Potter shouted, with utter hatred. He turned on Snape, rushing to his desk, screaming in the man’s face. “You coward. You fucking coward! You call me down here so you can tell Dumbledore you’re on his side, doing the right thing. I know what you are. I begged you! Oh, I bet you found that fun,” Harry spat. “I bet you found that to be such a turn-on. The prideful Chosen Boy, begging you for mercy. The famous Harry Potter, being brought low. I didn’t hear you telling me how it wasn’t my fault then. I didn’t hear you say a damn thing. I bet you were hoping it would be your turn with me next, you fucking traitor!” Potter’s chest heaved with rage. 

Snape stood slowly, his body feeling older than it should have. The Dark Lord hadn’t exactly favored his Death Eaters for the dereliction of duty during his fall. Especially not the inner circle of which Snape was a member. 

“Something unspeakably terrible happened to you, yes. I had no other choice. There was nothing that could be accomplished. Yes, I could have been brave in my last moments and wasted my life as an empty gesture to try and stop it from happening. But use your limited brain to think for once, you foolish boy. What would it have accomplished? He would’ve killed me, and where would you be? The same exact position as before, and with exactly zero allies left to help you escape.”

“Yes, I would have been in the exact same position,” Harry said, his voice dropping to match Snape’s restrained voice. “On my back, being fucked by the monster who murdered my parents.” 

“Yes, exactly.” Snape didn’t mean it as cruelly as it sounded, but he didn’t try to fix it, either. He refused to admit that, yes, the boy’s efforts to provoke him had worked. But in addition to the rage the boy was successfully attempt to foment, he felt anguish. Dumbledore seemed to wish to simply traumatize them both further. Surely the boy had other people to have this conversation with.

Snape walked calmly past Potter, and opened the door to the dungeon corridor. “You’re free to go, Potter.”

Potter gave the barest of nods before walking out his office and into the shadowy corridor.


End file.
